


Taikatalvi

by psyluna



Category: Nightwish
Genre: Childhood Memories, Gen, Imaginaerum, Loneliness, Nostalgia, Piano, Singing, Songfic, Songwriting, Taikatalvi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22421989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psyluna/pseuds/psyluna
Summary: The cold in the air. The warmness in the soul.The silence over the snow. The melody in the ears.The aged surroundings. The youth of creation.Far from everything. Close to yourself.English version ofTaikatalvi.
Kudos: 6





	Taikatalvi

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Taikatalvi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22421416) by [psyluna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psyluna/pseuds/psyluna). 



> This story comes from a school assignment I had in 2012, but it ended up ganing length and consistence. I grew fond of this short story and decided to publish it here.
> 
> Take note that this is a translation of the original, written in Brazilian Portuguese. If you happen to find any mistakes or bits and pieces that didn't sound natural, please take your time to warn me in the comment section.
> 
> Have a nice read.

It had been a sunny day; it had a pale, weak sunlight, that would not last much more in the sky. The end of the day hours painted vivid colors on the clouds and the air, making everything feel like a fantasy. I could not leave home and it was hard to admire that sight from the window. The sun rays, reflected by the snow, blinded my eyes, and the harsh cold would make my tired bones grind against one another until I no longer could walk.

Still, my lazy, tranquil eyes could not help admiring the scenery through the glass. The pine trees were so beautiful at that time of the day.

Once again, I grabbed the kettle full of fruity tea and poured myself another cup. It would be the first one since I got out of bed. Its taste was delicate, refreshing and pleasant, even being almost day-old, and there was no better drink to wake me up.

That’s not true. There  _ would be  _ a better drink. A cup of coffee worked wonders to brush any sleep away. But, in such a lonely place, I tried to detach myself from any addictions for some days. That meant no cigarettes as well. A little change, even a short one, could make my mind clearer. And it had been a quite confused one before I landed there, I can tell.

As I set the silverware on the table again, I noticed my reflection on its polished surface. It had been a while I did not see myself on the mirror, but the man I saw in the kettle was far from scary to me.

He was who I expected him to be.

Each slow sip of that tea was a different fragrance to my taste, and a new detail I captured in the snowy landscape on the other side of the window. A white, light snowflake that fell and rested on the wooden railing. A cloud following its way, little by little, to reveal the darkened sky and the first stars of the night. A crow that took flight, a squirrel digging near a tree, the gentle breeze that ran that place.

I slowly turned my face to the interior of the house. I laid my hand on the padded arm of the classic-style couch where I sat and stood up. Letting out a deep sigh, I inspired also as deeply as I could, searching for new energy in the cloistered air of the room.

I needed to get back to work.

I crossed the old, scarlet rug in the living room with my bare feet and began climbing up the stairs. I was not as fast as I have once been, long, long ago.

The house also looked much bigger in other times. There were so many hidden corners in the attic that I could lose entire days looking for interesting things, just to come back when dinner was ready, with a welcoming hug that waited for me somewhere. The kitchen pantry was my treasure chest, where I hid my precious Christmas sweets. The living room with a fireplace, where one could tell stories from books, legends, and memories, the family pictures on the tables, the cupboards, the library bookshelves and many, many memories of an old past.

They were a good company to me, all alone.

After leaving behind the last stair step, I walked through the dark corridor up to my good old bedroom. I had spent so many summers and winters there that getting rid of it in me was impossible. The blue wallpaper was still there. Its once lively shade was gone, as well as its yellowish patterns, but I could still see them where they were before, behind the layers of time. I was not very sure if I actually  _ saw _ them, or if I just  _ recalled _ them, but they seemed to be there to me. Some of my childhood drawings resisted the passing years, pinned around the landscape painting that I never wanted to move. The adhesive tape on the tips of the drawings was already old and brownish, but they seemed to be long-lasting.

With some hardship, I kneeled until I touched a knee on the ground, arched my back, and put a hand under the wardrobe, tapping on the cobwebs and dust bunnies until my fingers found round edges.

I carefully picked up the box, dragging it on the carpet, and removed the grey dust layer from its surface with my palm. It was a jewelry case, a greater one than usual, a gift from an aunt. A wooden chest, so dark that, all my life, I believed it to be made of ebony. The dirt from that corner plagued me to my pores and lungs; I coughed to expel it from my body. I got up and opened a drawer of the wardrobe, searching it among envelopes and newspaper cutouts. As I found a thrown cord in there, I closed it again and kneeled again, grabbing the box and leaving the bedroom.

Climbing down the stairs hurt me less than the opposite, but the bumps on my joints made sure to leave me in pain every once in a while, just so that I would not forget how sensitive they were. I was back to the living room and left the things on a table far from the center one. I pulled down both shirts I wore, a blue knit sweater and a beige button-up shirt. I also got an elastic hairband from my wrist, held my brown hair, and tied them into a long, curly ponytail.

Carrying logs from the warehouse to the fireplace would tire me out, no matter how cold it was. But the night approached, and I was not planning of surrendering to it so early. Log after log, branch after branch and the fireplace started burning. I poked the cinders until the flame was stable, as the last rays of light disappeared behind the mountains. Under the half-light of the fire, I was way more comfortable.

In the end, everything seemed ready. I took a deep breath, counted to three, and walked up to the darkest corner of that room. Under that gloomy, mysterious curtain, there it stood. My first friend was unable to speak in words, but what a great voice it had to someone that knew how to listen to it.

With a twine around my fingers, I spun it so that the key on the end ended up in my palm. I put it in the lock and opened it, pulling up the fallboard. I removed the red felt there, folding it in half and leaving it on the board, like a hanging scarf.

The old yellow shade of the keys was never leaving my memories. I touched one of them, as if I caressed it, without making a sound. I inhaled the familiar smell of wood that surrounded that corner. It gave me comfort, it calmed me, it inspired me… Enough to make me resume from where I had stopped.

Finally, I sat on the piano bench.

I stretched my arm to the table by my side. There was a great pile of books, binds, and paper on it, music sheets and studies out of a meticulous order. Poetry drafts, annotations of a melody or another, notebooks filled with thoughts, first doodles of some surreal illustration. But what mattered to me that time was not in the pile.

I reached for the jewelry case, put it on my lap, and opened it. In its interior, there was a small gathering of memories. Letters folded in half, handwritten or done with a typewriter. Colored pencil or crayon drawings, with a dedication on each of them. Small herbariums, made many years ago, ones of flowers and leaves. Old coins of sentimental value, single buttons, colorful rocks, everything recalling a distant, wistful time. I skimmed through each object, each sheet, one by one, until I found the one I was searching for.

Almost in the end, between a note and a poem draft, a picture.

With tenderness, I pulled it from there and spent some seconds staring at it. I allowed that the feeling registered there invaded my body and fused with my soul. I needed that.

I left it on the music sheet, adjusted the bench, put my foot on the sustain pedal, and closed my eyes. I started playing and, with the song, many scenes sprouted in my mind.

The first notes, simple and bright, were a sweet music box, echoing in the acoustics of the room. I decided to decelerate my tempo, making it even more real.

_ The first sunny day of spring. The grass defrosting under the shows, the flowers in bloom. The gentle breeze on one’s face, the free laughter, the many expectations, as well as none of them. _

I took my hand to the fourth octave. Usually, I was ashamed of my voice. I passed any opportunities of singing, gave the job to someone else, avoided thinking about it. I always turned away from it.

But there, where no one could hear me, I gave myself a chance.

I started saying each and every word in my mother tongue, one I used scarcely for poetry.

_ Lapsistain rakkain tää näytämö on _

(From all of my children, the dearest is the stage)  
  


_ Mis kuutamo kujillaan kulkee _

(Where moonlight moves through alleys)  
  


_ Taipunut havu, kesä hoivassa sen _

(A bent twig, a summer in its care)  
  


_ Valkomeren niin aavan _

(The sea, so vast and open)  
  


_ Joka aavekun siivin _

(On the wings of a ghostly moon)  
  


_ Saapuu mut kotiin noutamaan _

(It’s coming to take me home)

The song made me shiver in each syllable. Its sad, surreal tone, the ebb and flow of the melody, the poem of an old man with a young heart, composing a profound lullaby.

_ A new wooden creation, a fruit of teamwork. Happiness coming from the company, from a desire to enjoy spare time. The simple wish to smile and have fun, to run and hide, to find and to be found. _

A story I would write with verses and orchestration.

_ Päällä talvisen maan hetki kuin ikuisuus _

(In the land of the winter, every moment is an eternity)  
  


_ Mi pienen kissan jaloin luokseni hiipii _

(That creeps to me in the steps of a kitten)  
  


_ Tääl tarinain lähteellä asua saan mis _

(I live here where all of the stories begin)  
  


_ Viulu valtavan kaihon _

(Where the violin of the eternal longing)  
  


_ Ikisäveltään maalaa _

(Paints a forever melody)  
  


_ Laullulaan herättä maan _

(Waking the earth with its song)

I kept on playing, even after the end of the lyrics. My fingers seemed to come and go without a need to command them. They guided themselves, producing a high melody with a legato, that, in my conscience, transmuted in the sound of a flute, brought from past and gone times, from the ancient people and my own life.

_ Two people, with no ambitions, no great aspirations. Playing one against another among the nature of that place. Boy and girl under the blue sky, who just wanted to be there. _

Everything was so strong in my chest that it felt like it was about to explode.

_ A voice that does not call, but approaches them. The press of a button, the sound of capture, the printing of an eternalized moment. _

There was a living flame pushing me forward.

The harmony of the song was coming to an end. I left it to the sustain of the piano to keep it in the air, dissolving little by little. I played some higher keys, leaving them sustained until I removed my foot from the pedal.

_ The image of a whole childhood. _

Then, I opened my eyes, with remains of the suite in my soul.

The world seemed more nitid and quieter, although darker. My impression was that two hours were gone from start to finish, but it was impossible to trust my gut when it came to time.

I felt like I was leaving a long meditation. I looked at the picture, remembering it quite well as if I could still be there. In the end, the family cottage had become mine. A present that the odds gave me? Maybe. In its garden that faced the forest, before and after the old fence, wherever in that place, there lived a part of me.

I made that corner of the room come back to its usual order. As I set down the fallboard, I did so promising another visit and locking it with a brief repentance in my heart.

A comfortable sensation embraced me as a whole. The heat of the fireplace and that good feeling on the air, the absence of sounds, the peace that permeated that place, so empty… And so full of small mementos.

I undid my ponytail, running my fingers in my hair to split apart the locks from each other. A lonely hairline left it, with a slightly clearer reflex. It fell from my hand unnoticed.

I climbed upstairs once more, to the attic this time. Reaching its entrance was a bit challenging. The square trapdoor on the roof required a stool and some arm strength to be reached. I climbed using the ropes and arrived at the top with my hands red from the effort. I rummaged a bit through the many stored things until I found a vacant space for the jewelry case. Its usefulness had come to an end until I needed something from it again later.

Each of the objects covered by sheets had once been young and useful in some period. They deserved their long-lasting retirement, after all that time serving their purpose. They were ghosts under the dust and the dark of the tallest, most occult room of the house.

Were they as tired as I was?

It was then, when I was lost amid the furniture and boxes, that I noticed what happened in those minutes of trance, just the piano, and my voice. That song was the only one that needed to be finished.

And I had fulfilled my duty.

It was still dead cold outside, and I, inside, could not join it. The snow fell with delicacy on the soil. The nature was dormant under a blanket of ice, while I spent my time trying to read some Stephen King, trying to watch the landscape through the window, drinking more tea, and hiding my feet under the duvet. After some time, the sleep started to win its battle against me. I ran my eyes on the fireplace table trying to find something to leave as a bookmark. I could not tell how surprised I was to see an instant photo there. Without leaving the armchair, I stretched my back, caught it, and flipped it up to see which one was it.

A brief smile was on my face when I remembered not putting it away.

On the inferior corner of the white frame, without any parts of the picture, there was a name. There were two names. “Kirsti Nortia-Holopainen”, the first one of them, from a hand used to writing as a profession. And, right under it, in a way less trained handwriting, “Tuomas”.

I rested it carefully between chapters ten and eleven, left the book on the table, and drank the rest of the teacup. I laid my head behind, wishing to sleep the sweetest dreams I have ever had. So, I hummed some notes, alone in the night, me and the magic of winter.

**Author's Note:**

> That was it. I loved writing this. It was magic, fantastic, and it flowed so easily. I think it's one of my works that I just never get tired from reading again. In case you had any impression or opinion about it, I'd really like to know, so, comments are welcome. See you next time.


End file.
